shieldandstrike

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lil’ shit

@shieldandstrike based on a post i can’t fucking find but you’ll know which one the moment you see this shit

“ So, is it true? ”

          “ Do you really send out unsolicited dick pics? ”

he snorts, looking absolutely APPALLED at the question... how dare he ask such a thing! as if he, Brock Rumlow, would send unsolicited dick pics to the LOVELY agents of their organization!

                                        guilty as charged.

“why?” it’s actually kind of tough, biting back his shit-eating smirk. “jealous you ain’t get any?”

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*  SELF-KNOWLEDGE  QUESTIONNAIRE.

Below the surface everyone is pretty complicated. Based on your answers, we think the following three traits are important strands in your personality:

AGGRESSION

One part of your character is anger in all its forms: frustration, outrage – and when anger is suppressed – bitterness, grumpiness, and bodily aches. Fundamentally, frustration comes from hope: you get upset because you expect your life will be more than a valley of tears. One way to deny aggression is to direct it inwards, as self-criticism. But you’re at your best when you acknowledge anger, and act it out clearly and in a focussed way, with honour.

SENSITIVITY

You have delicate, sensitive perceptions; you can be deeply moved by appearances – the right light in a room, or good food, or the texture of a piece of clothing. Expressive, intelligent language has a powerful hold on you; your mind works better when it is inspired and provoked by vivid imagery. It can be sad to live in a world which is often so ugly and not properly looked after. But you know that things can be otherwise, and you have the ability to appreciate the world at its best.

EXHIBITIONISM

There’s a strand in your nature which loves making an impression – perhaps with your clothes, or conversation, or in a self-revealing blog or a novel. You like to dramatise yourself, to pose as a unique, perhaps mysterious person, to joke or exaggerate your part in adventures. Though you might more than once have been called a show off, it is actually a generous tendency: you want to please and entertain others. It could be the start of good teaching and leadership.

TAGGED BY: @wintersoviet​

TAGGING: i never know who to tag without tagging someone who’s already been tagged! so assume that if you’re reading this, you’ve been tagged LOL

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wintersoviet:

shieldandstrike:

wintersoviet:

@shieldandstrike smelly

(ง'̀-‘́)ง

(ง'̀-‘́)ง fite me smelly rumlow

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wintersoviet:

@shieldandstrike smelly

(ง'̀-‘́)ง

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fallcnandlost:

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“I didn’t do what they said I did.”

Brock was always one to push buttons-- make people squirm and question things about themselves. One could venture a guess that his favourite passtime was gas lighting. “See, I have reason to suspect that yer not bein’ entirely truthful, Rogers.”

“But m’willin’ to listen to what y’gotta say.”

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baby boy

There was no denying the tension that continued to linger in the spaces between the two men. It sank into the floorboards, into the walls; made its home in the couch cushions, the bed mattress. Everywhere they had been, the tension followed like a stray dog looking for a home. To be fair, Montague had no one to blame but himself. It was a stupid idea to have his new partner move into the same house he once shared with his former partner… who just happened to be the same man. But different. Both had the name Brock Rumlow. Both looked the exact same with some minor differences here and there. But they were so very different at the same time.

It wasn’t Montague’s intention to be a sad sack of shit all the time, and he honestly did try his best to hide it. But Brock wasn’t an idiot. He had sharper senses and a sharper intuition than the former Rumlow; something Montague was only just getting used to. So of course, not only did he know when something was completely off with the boy, he also knew when Monty was bold-faced lying to his face about it. Fortunate for him, Brock would drop the topic fairly quickly, knowing already what the issue was.

The mention of going out took him by surprise, but it certainly wasn’t unwelcome. He had been expecting the two of them to have some sort of talk at some point in time about the way he’d been acting; Rumlow seemed to have other plans. Corner of his lips twitch up into a smile at the proposition. It doesn’t take much convincing for Montague to agree to go out partying with him. It’s something he’d never done and really never thought he’d do at all. Yet there he was, walking into an exuberant building. The place looked a bit scummy from the outside, but it was like he had just stepped into a whole new world.

Rumlow’s words barely reach his ears, but he understands well enough. Montague can’t deny the furious beating behind his ribcage though as he spots a booth and slides into the seat. He’s nervous as all hell. So much noise, so many people. He’s starting to almost regret agreeing to this if only for the fear of embarrassing Brock or making some kind of scene.

Thankfully, his heart rate levels out again once his partner is in view and heading to where Montague is sitting, drinks in hand.

God damn, he’s beautiful.

Sparkling and glossy blue eyes stare up at him behind long lashes, scanning every detail of his face. Admiring him with a thick swallow. There’s something about the way the strobe lights bounce off of his cheekbones and cascade from behind him, creating a beautiful silhouette that has Montague scraping his teeth along a plump bottom lip.

“ So, ” he says, voice raised enough to be heard over the music in the background, “ you mentioned a surprise earlier. Y'know how impatient I am. ”

Oh, he had so many ideas rolling through his mind a he approaches the bar and orders their drinks. The bouncers either hadn’t given a care enough to pat him down properly, or really were rather shitty at their jobs-- regardless, Brock fingers the small packet in his breast pocket and smirks lazily to himself. Tonight was going to be a good night... it had to be. He had to show Monty that he was capable of bringing life and adventure to his dull world now. He had to prove himself. As if being the sole survivor of a zombie apocalypse wasn’t enough already.

Taking a quick look about the lounge area when he leaves the bar, he spots Monty in a booth and acknowledges him with a jut of his chin, making haste toward him and dodging bodies as he went. Placing the slender blond’s drink down on the table and sliding it toward him lazily, Brock slides into the seat next to him smoothly, honey eyes trained on the younger boy as he makes himself comfortable. His large body shifts a bit at the sight of Monty biting his lip, one brow raising as he tips his drink back to take a long gulp. He saves a sip, encouraging Monty to do the same shortly after he hears the other speak.

Impatient little brat. His smirk peels back into a wicked grin, body shifting more so he can shield the other from prying eyes. Monty is almost hidden behind him as he moves, and it causes a predatory growl to rumble through him-- possessive and hungry. He loves how small his boy is. Brock fishes out the small packet, tapping out a couple small pills with smiling faces printed on them. Ecstasy. It’d been a while since he partied hard, and man did he ever want to get back into it. The last time he lost himself to drugs and parties was when the end of the world was announced. Festivals and week long binge parties in the darkness, celebrating the end of all days and not giving a flying fuck about anything anymore. Brock had woken up in too many puddles of piss and puke to count, and though he had no intention of waking up that way tomorrow morning, he wanted to share that part of his life with Monty.

He wanted to share everything with Monty. He wanted to be honest. Truthful. And a little bit chaotic. 

Popping a pill in his mouth, he leans forward, allowing it to dissolve on his tongue as he remains a hair’s breadth away from his partner’s mouth. Once gone, he holds up the other pill, showing it to Monty and leaning just-so to nose against the other’s jaw line and the sensitive flesh of his neck, and behind his ear. “M’gonna put this on my tongue,” he purrs, growling hotly against the shell of Monty’s ear. “And m’gonna kiss ya. Yer gonna take it. Let it dissolve. Don’t chew. It’ll make y’feel real fuckin’ good babe. And--” he nips the others ear, pressing his chest flush against Monty’s now as he pulls his hand closer to his own mouth. “I’ll make ya feel even better.”

He waits only a moment more before pulling away and placing the tablet on his tongue-- then dives for Monty’s mouth, hard and open-mouthed with a passionate and heated kiss. He’d take care of his boy. He only hoped the drugs would give them both the desired affect instead of throwing the boy into a panic.

@ofmagpie​

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peculiumdevirgine

shieldandstrike boarded the bus

❛Kay, so you’re being a little too intense for me right now, so I’m just going to leave…❜

Too intense? Why, I never... 

“-- the damn Hell are yeh talkin’ about?     Ain’t no way m’ever too intense, chickadee.”

All he was doing was polishing a machine gun, like... jeese louise, if that was intense then what was tame?

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notxfinished

@shieldandstrike liked for a starter 

He stared at the paint he had dipped the blades of his right hand with a slight frown. Originally, he had thought attempting to add some color to his ice sculpture would have been a good idea, but seeing the red paint on his hands only reminded him of blood and brought back memories he rather leave forgotten. 

Turning to go find a way to wash the paint off, Edward found himself bumping into another person, one he had not realized was anywhere near his surrounding area until it was too late.

“I-I’m sorry!” He  apologized frantically, worried that he may have accidentally hurt the other with his hands.

Suffice it to say, Brock was curious by nature. 

He was always trying to find new places to move away to, settle down in and start over a bit. It couldn’t have been too soon after he was discharged from the military that he found this quiet little neighbourhood to settle down in-- but you know, rumours and the like were Brock’s forte and he was quick to fall into the gossip. It was exactly that, that brought him to where he was now. A large mansion that had Brock whistling lowly in admiration. Hell, maybe he’d just move in there - weasel his way in and live there secretly.

It was the sounds and flurry of sleet that held Brock’s attention most as he came further onto the property, one hand lifting to pull his jacket more tightly to himself-- it wasn’t necessarily cold, but the sight of falling snow always made him feel a chill. The noises stopped, as did the flurry, and Brock took that time to admire the sculptures he stumbled upon. Goddamn, but they were beautiful. Like nothing he’d ever seen before. Odd, for a simple man like Brock Rumlow to find beauty in art, but he did... he actually quite enjoyed it.

Rounding the corner with eyes everywhere but in front, the soldier lets out a less than attractive noise as he’s bumped into-- a mixture between a shocked gasp and forceful grunt at the impact. After stepping back a bit, Brock parts his lips to speak but it taken aback by the sharp hands before him. The red on them has the soldier glancing down on himself, curious as to why there would be blood if he didn’t feel pain. No, no. He was fine. The boy hadn’t harmed him and though fear spiked in him at the oddity of the boy, the apology made him hold back any slew of foul language that threatened to bubble from him.

With arms up and hands out in a placating manner, Brock lowers them slowly, eyeballing the sharp digits of the other carefully but... he couldn’t deny his own curiosities, even as odd as it was. “Hey, it’s s’ok.” he offers, glancing over the shoulder of the other quickly-- ah. That would explain the flurries and the red. It was paint. Brock can’t mask his sigh of relief. “You, ah-- you paintin’ there? What are y’workin’ on?”

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“how about i get you a drink and you tell me about yourself?” @kupale

Brock? Tell someone about himself? What was there to even tell? 

Brock Rumlow was a fucking train wreck of a human being, and honestly he wouldn’t have even known where to begin with explaining who he was and what he did and why, but... who was he to deny a free drink? The dark male finally acquiesces, tilting his head and nodding slightly. Alright, he’d play along. He didn’t often get drinks with the agents of SHIELD, feeling far more comfortable in the nasty ass filthy pub he went to with some other agents of HYDRA instead, but he was willing to give this a chance. “Alright, one drink. One question ‘bout me. A drink per question, how’ssat sound?”

Seating himself more comfortably at the bar, Brock leans on his elbows, honey glazed gaze staring at the drinks behind the bartender before he finally turns his attention to the agent seated next to him. He grabs for the beer lazily, gulping it down as though it were water and only leaving a few mouthfuls left when he places it back down on the counter. Brock smacks his lips, savoring the flavour, even if it wouldn’t do much for him except create a dull buzzing at the base of his skull. “First question,” he exhales, leaning a bit more to gaze at the man. “Shoot.”

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“Public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable.” @kupale​

These were his favourite missions, if only because he lived to make others uncomfortable sometimes. Most times, they involved a male and female partner team-- this particular mission called for two men, and wouldn’t you know it? Brock was all for this life. A shit-eating grin had been plastered to his face all day when he’d been given his partner for the undercover mission, and he’d hunted McGarrett down by the end of his shift just to explain with sickening joy-- they were to play boyfriend and boyfriend, and Brock couldn’t have asked for a better situation to annoy the absolute fuck out of the SHIELD agent.

HYDRA never had fun missions like this-- he wished they did, just so he could grab Rollins and drag him in for some uncomfortable displays of affection. He’d probably get punched in the face, but it would be well worth it just to make his life Hell.

They were seated now, across from one another at a small restaurant known very well within the gay community. It was a safe place of sorts, and if Brock had to be honest with himself, it felt a little more relaxed and welcoming than any other romantic styled restaurant he’d visited with dates in the past; real or not. It was just a ... nice atmosphere. Brock smirks to himself, lifting and dropping his eyebrows playfully in Steve’s direction as their waiter approaches and asks about their drinks and whether or not they needed more time with the menus.

Brock takes charge, as a good boyfriend should, and explains that they’d like some more time with one another before ordering. He reaches over without hesitation, placing his hand over Steve’s where it rest on the table. The man holds it tightly, should Steve wish to pull it away. The waiter leaves after an understanding smile, and it takes a lot for Brock to keep his laughter to himself. The comment that leaves Steve’s mouth, however, does finally break him and the large man is tossing his head back with a loud guffaw that could have no doubt been heard across the entire restaurant.

“Yeah, ’sit make the person involved uncomfortable?” he gives a pointed look at the other, finally moving his hand away from the other, only just now remembering that he was holding his hand in the first place. “Or ‘sit make the others around ‘em uncomfortable? ‘Cause frankly, I intend to shower you in love and affection and anythin’ yer lil’ heart desires, pumpkin.” As he speaks, he leans forward across the table, lips pursing and voice upping a slight octave as he baby-talks the other. God, this was gonna be a fun mission. He wondered just how far he could take this-- Brock was known within his own group for pushing buttons and limits.

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“For as long as I can remember, I just wanted to do what was right.” @kupale

The scoff that left the large man isn’t exactly malicious, but it isn’t understanding either.

Brock was the last person to talk to about right and wrong and what it meant to be right-- to do what was right, because even though the man knew LOGICALLY the difference between the two... he could never find it in himself to follow through with what was right. What was appropriate. What was admired. The words of his father had long since been ignored in his old age now - it was but a whisper in the back of his mind; You’re nothin’, boy, and you’ll always be nothin’.

Well, he was certainly something, but he was nothing good.

Looming in the doorway now, Brock folds his arms over his broad chest and tips his head down to stare at his crossed feet. His shoulder braces his weight against the door frame, hair that had been gelled back that morning now loose and lackluster falling to curtain his face as he mulls over his choice in words. He wasn’t known for being comforting. He would sooner pat someone awkwardly on the top of their head and mumble a there, there before actually offering a comforting hand, but the agent before him seemed just a little bit off.

He’d been on the side of the angels for so long it seemed, that giving himself over to his demons and the Devil was a task-- and there was really no denying that, for any regular good person. His heart was pure, and Brock admired that to a fault. Alas, there was no light without darkness, and it almost prided Brock to see Steve finally will the darkness to the surface. Even if it was just in his subconscious. Why would he mention wanting to be good and right if he weren’t struggling with something?

“Who the fuck has the authority to say what’s right and what’s wrong.” he finally snorts, pushing himself from the doorway and making his way further into the room to pace around the other slowly, sizing him up carefully to plan his next set of moves. “Do whatever the fuck you wanna do, kid. There ain’t nothin’ sayin’ y’gotta stay nice and proper in a fancy lil’ fuckin’ box. Live outside it,” Brock finally crouches in front of the other so they’re more at eye level, head tilting just-so to get a better look at the conflict in his face. 

“Tell me what y’wanna do. Anything. First thing to pop into yer head. What does Steve the person wanna do? Not Steve the Agent.”

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“You want to be a hero? Is that it?” @kupale

Brock glowers, a snarl rumbling deeply in his chest as he stares the agent down.

He’d never advertised himself to be anything short of a criminal-- since he was thirteen, he’d been a criminal. Even earlier than that, really, if you counted the amount of times he’d stolen from his parents and neighbours and other children on the street. He’d run a gang as a boy, and he’d thrown himself into the military before he was even of age simply because... well, yes, he had wanted an escape but also because the only thing he thought he was good at anymore was giving and taking orders and killing.

When HYDRA had picked him up due to his prowess, he threw himself headlong into that as well, and that was most certainly not hero material. He’d done things -- unspeakable things. Did he regret it? Sometimes, in the early mornings when he’d been running on only a few hours of sleep over the course of a week. When he was exhausted and staring at his ceiling and questioning whether or not it was worth it to continue. Most times, he just... lived with it. Accepted that these were all things that had happened and there was no sense dwelling on it because what was he going to do? Turn back time and live things out differently?

Impossible.

Brock catches the agent’s gaze with narrowed, honey tinted eyes. He was trying to redeem himself in whatever fucked up way he could, but all he’d known since birth was death and destruction. He wasn’t known for fixing things, repairing them, putting them back together... he just made things fall apart. “I ain’t no fuckin’ hero,” he finally growls, muscles tensing as though he were a cornered animal, ready to attack if provoked. “Ain’t never gonna be a hero, so lay off that shit, ‘cause you ain’t got no clue what I’m about, son.”

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@crossxbones

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dear anyone who followed this blog under the impression that I was a quality writer I am so sorry 

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starter call

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holy fuck, you hooligans bumped my follower count up ten fold and i’m crying. thank you to everyone who has tagged me recently in those positivity posts. it truly means a lot to me, and i appreciate it more than you know.

i have a few things on the go today, but i’m hoping to get some things done today and tomorrow evening to catch up. i’ll be reblogging my starter call, doing some starters i owe, catching up on my replies and working on my inbox.

thanks again so much for your patience everyone! i’m so pleased you all found something you like in my Rumlow! <3 

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Everyone is born with the number of years they’ll live tattooed on their arm. You’re born with the infinity sign.